


Unrelated prompt fills

by capalxii



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capalxii/pseuds/capalxii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the moment, a variety of TTOI (generally Malcolm x Jamie) and Doctor Who (all 12th Doctor, often 12 x Clara) prompt fills. I'll title each chapter with the fandom for easier sorting. Rated M as a general catch-all but there's some variety in there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. TTOI, Malcolm x Jamie: the one where they're both in the seminary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch 1. prompted by tumblr user madamehardy.

There had been many other instances where Malcolm had had some inkling that perhaps he wasn’t meant to be in the seminary. Judging the sins of others. Sinning, repenting out of habit, sinning again himself. Judging the sins of others some more, even (especially) if they paralleled his own. Finding interest in how the news of the day was formed and malformed, rather than in how the news of the day affected people’s lives—well, that wasn’t quite fair or accurate, as he found himself interested in both aspects equally, but he was sure that a man of the cloth should have been more interested in the effects of politics rather than the manufacture of it.

But today, he’d met another seminarian, a wee thing with bright blue eyes and hair as angry as his personality, a young man who’d argued in favor of liberation theology in the common room until he was as red in the face as—okay, as red in the face as he was red, and Malcolm. Poor, wide-eyed Malcolm, had reached for his rosary and had taken long, awkward strides to the door, his limbs even more of a confused jumble than normal.

Now he was kneeling at the back of the chapel, hands clasped in prayer to someone or something that had never really answered him before—yeah, he probably wasn’t meant for this line of work at all—and tried to sort out the things running hot through his veins and itching under his skin. He couldn’t; that night, when his roommate slept, he willed himself with his hands under his head not to imagine how the fight in Jamie’s eyes might fit with his own reaction to the world around them, and more than that he willed himself not to imagine how Jamie’s slight but powerful body might fit with his own too-long and too-skinny one. His roommate’s snoring filled the room, and Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut as his hand skirted beneath his sheets and he failed on both counts of willpower.

When he found himself, three weeks later, with a job offer from a local paper, covering small-time politicians and their small-time crookedness, he took it. He left the seminary behind, left any dream he’d had of guiding people to more peaceful lives, left behind the beautiful storm of a boy whose presence had forced him to admit what he’d known for years, that this had just not been the right path for him.

A week after that, he went back, and asked Jamie if he wouldn’t be happier tackling greed and corruption head-on. Those bright eyes had never looked brighter, and Malcolm decided then and there that if the only thing he could accomplish in life was to keep Jamie as wild as he was right then and there, that would be enough.


	2. TTOI: Malcolm x Jamie, knitting crack-fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user madamehardy.

“You know knitting needles aren’t actual weapons.”

“I know.” Malcolm sneered and spat, “I’m allowed to knit, aren’t I?”

Jamie sat back in his chair; it was a big chair, too big for Jamie if Malcolm were being mean and he was so he said so with an insult involving the insinuation of his mother having had relations with participants of a pub midget-toss. It wasn’t helping Malcolm’s disposition to find that he hadn’t known what Jamie had fucked off to do post-politics. He’d thought he’d vaporized in some mad spontaneous combustion, yet here he was. Actually putting that degree in history and theology to some kind of use, working on some kind of academic project that Malcolm had found incredibly interesting when the job opportunity had been passed to him but which now he wasn’t so sure he even wanted—

“This position is for experienced knitters, people with community ties and creativity—”

Oh, he wanted it. Malcolm slammed his CV and references down on the desk Jamie (Professor?????? MacDonald???) was seated behind. “I’m fucking creative,” he growled. “And I’ll tie your scrotum to the community—”

“Fuck off, you don’t know how to knit,” Jamie said. “Since when?”

“Since forever,” Malcolm said. “Since when have you been a professor?”

Even Jamie’s ugly beard—Christ, why—managed to look angry at that. “You didn’t actually build me in a lab, you bony, emaciated old shite. I’ve always had a life outside of what we were doing.”

“No you didn’t.”

Jamie balled up his CV and tossed it into the wastebasket on the other side of his office (Malcolm used to have an office and now Jamie had an office and Malcolm tried to wrap his brain around it). “I taught before. I’m teaching now. We need an actual knitter in residence, not whatever the fuck it is you think you are. What are you, bored? Is that why you’re here?”

Malcolm had long ago stopped pretending any of what he was going through was simple boredom. Still, he said, “Yeah,” and got up to leave.

“Malc.”

He turned back, knowing he looked surly and sour because he’d never been particularly good about hiding that sort of thing from Jamie and so he’d never really tried. “What?”

Jamie stood and came around his desk, peering up like some kind of Ewok philosopher at Malcolm’s face, searching for something Malcolm wasn’t sure he could give. Finally, Jamie shoved him and scowled through the universe’s worst facial hair and said, “You fucker. You can knit.”

“Yes.”

“You never knit me anything.”

Malcolm scowled right back down at him. “I knit you socks.”

“You bought me socks.”

“I knit,” he said through bared teeth, “all the fucking socks I ever gave you.”

The look on Jamie’s face was less angry and more angry-with-a-strong-hint-of-confused. “They just showed up in my sock drawer like magic. You never said anything. You knit me socks and left them in a drawer for me to find?”

“What was I supposed to say,” Malcolm asked, “’here’s a new bit of wool blend for you to wank into, have fun’?”

Jamie squared his shoulders and glared up at him. “Prove it.”

“What?”

“I’m wearing a pair right now. Prove you knit them.”

Malcolm’s eyes turned cold and his face twisted into a feral grin. “They all say ‘cunt’ on the soles.”

He stared for a heartbeat, and then braced his hand on the wall beside Malcolm’s arm and kicked off his shoes. Reaching down as he brought his heel up, Jamie peeled off a sock and proceeded to inspect the pattern; like every other pair Malcolm had ever knit him, they were jauntily patterned, colors and grays meeting in handsome repetition. Jamie tilted his head and frowned down at the sock stretched out in his hands.

“Fuck,” Jamie muttered. “Fuck me. You fucking—fuck.” Standing with one sock on his foot and one in his hand, he looked back up at Malcolm. “Since when did you knit?”

“I wasn’t always busy building you in a lab,” he said with a shrug that he hoped looked carefree. He smiled and repeated Jamie’s other words right back at him: “I’ve always had a life outside of what we were doing.”

“No,” Jamie said, looking as bewildered as Malcolm had ever seen him. “You didn’t.”

Lava bubbled up his throat and through his chest, but his smile only got wider. “Nah, but it wasn’t so bad, was it? You look like a complete twat, by the way.”

Jamie glanced down at the sock in his hand and nearly threw it at Malcolm’s chest before sitting down to put it back on. “Fuck you.”

“I was talking about the dead animal on your face.”

“So you can knit.”

“I’ll knit a fucking brown bag to cover that hideous growth—”

“Communication skills still intact,” Jamie said brightly. “The position requires workshop—”

“—Yeah, workshop-leading experience, which you’d see, if you hadn’t tossed my references, that—”

“Fuck off, you don’t have—”

“I will reach my arms up your rectum and knit your intestines into a scarf if you keep on with this. Give me the job.”

Jamie glared warily at him. “I need new socks.”

Malcolm peered back at him. “Are you asking for a bribe?”

“I’m asking for socks,” Jamie said. He cleared his throat and added, “I’ll give you my key. Leave them in my sock drawer. When I’m not home.”

“I’ve got the job?”

“Yeah.”

“Done.”

“Good.”


	3. X-over: Twelve, (Wrong) Jamie (MacDonald) & Malcolm Tucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user zabbers, crossover where Jamie from TTOI is traveling with the Doctor and he introduces Malcolm to Twelve.

Malcolm glared at the Doctor. The Doctor glared back. “This,” Malcolm said, “is what you flipped off with?” He turned his glare to Jamie. “An animated alien Real Doll version of me?”

The Doctor turned his glare to Jamie. “What’s a ‘real doll?’”

“Never you mind that,” Jamie said quickly. He returned Malcolm’s glare. “And fuck you.”

Malcolm glared up and around him in outrage. “Wait a minute—how come you can curse and I can’t?”

“Never you mind that,” Jamie said. He patted the TARDIS and made a mental note to thank her properly later; being teacher’s pet was exactly what it was cracked up to be and he’d enjoy lording it over Malcolm for as long as he could.

The Doctor leaned forward and squinted, frowning, at Malcolm. “He’s handsome enough.”

“Unlike you,” Malcolm said.

“But not very bright,” the Doctor muttered.

Jamie hadn’t planned for this. His life with Malcolm was a different chapter from his life with the Doctor—they weren’t meant to mix. But something strange was happening in London, and Jamie’s first instinct had been to pack a bag and drag them both to safety, which meant calling the Doctor and asking for a ride out of town or help or something. In the relative safety of the TARDIS, he realized that this had probably been the second or third worst idea he’d ever had.

“Right. Jamie, you know where your room is,” the Doctor said, moving around the console as he did something technical Jamie had never really understood. “I imagine there’ll be bunk beds in there now.”

Malcolm glared at Jamie and Jamie just sort of half glared in apology back. “I’ll take the top,” he muttered.

“You’ll take a separate room,” Malcolm growled.

The Doctor’s head shot up at that. “I don’t have enough space to be giving you two rooms, this isn’t a hotel.”

“I stepped through those doors into a different dimension,” Malcolm said quietly—Jamie loved this voice of his, all controlled rage and power—”and you’re telling me you don’t have space?”

The Doctor took a step towards Malcolm; standing toe to toe, the Doctor seemed taller with his heavy boots and straight back. Malcolm slouched, hunched-shouldered and insouciant, and glowered from beneath his brows as the Doctor glared down his nose. “I’m telling you,” the Doctor said in the exact same voice, “there is no room at the inn.”

Jamie decided right then that actually, this was second or third greatest idea he’d ever had. “Hang on,” he said. He turned down the hall and shouted, “Give me a few minutes—Doctor, where’s the kitchen?”

“Er, third door to the left,” he said. “Jamie?”

Jamie stuck his head back in the console room. “Yeah, just hold off for a bit, I’m getting popcorn.”

He made it three steps before hearing a twinned, outraged, “JAMIE,” and the clatter of footsteps from his two favorite angry scowly people rushing close behind him.


	4. 3 sentence DW AU: Twelve, Clara, detectives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user zabbers

The smile the Doctor gave her was at once searing and cold; she was deep undercover in his seemingly endless crime syndicate, and as she watched him stalk towards her in the dark and damp and otherwise deserted basement, she knew that he knew it.

"Tell me," he said, teeth glittering in the half-light seeping in from the streetlamp outside, "am I a good man?"

Detective Clara Oswald steeled herself, stood taller than she felt possible, and smiled just as coldly to feign bravery as she desperately tried to think of a way out.


	5. 3 sentence DW AU: Twelve, Clara, internet friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user rumpledmrgold

Clara adjusted the webcam more than a little anxiously; they’d only ever spoken in text before, she and this Doc12 character, all emails and PMs and reblogs, and she didn’t know what to expect now that they’d finally decided on a time and day for a proper video chat.

She didn’t have long to wonder if he was equally nervous, as his name popped up in the chat dialogue and the video went from blacked-out to a sort of fizzy kind of adjusting for the light in his room; then he was there, staring at her with big uncertain blue eyes and oh yes, he was nervous wasn’t he, and she saw herself in a little box in the corner staring back just as nervously and she smiled at how silly they both were being because they knew each other, didn’t they, they were already friends even if his face was wholly unfamiliar to her, no reason for butterflies in the stomach—she smiled and said, “Hello.”

He smiled back, skinny shoulders slumping in relief as a sigh escaped him and he replied, “Hello, Clara.”


	6. TTOI: Malcolm x Jamie, flirting & jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user 0stackcats0

There’s an entire universe between them, a club full of people Jamie can’t seem to push himself through and Malcolm is talking to this fucking beautiful woman on the other side of a room that might as well be through the looking glass. Jamie himself might have no interest in her but he can see how Malcolm might, as Malcolm leans his body in with his elbow perched on the bar and his hip cocked just enough to close his frame in on her. He’s a sucker for great hair, big long-lashed eyes, and an actual brain to go with it all; judging by the looks on both their faces as they talk to each other, she’s got brains for days.

Jamie could just about explode.

He knows Malcolm does this on purpose; he’ll claim tomorrow he was just keeping himself in practice, he was just having a bit of fun, he knew who he was going home with the whole time. But Jamie can see he’s not wearing the ring tonight, and it’s not like there’s a tell-tale tan line where it’d normally be—he’s never tanned, likely the sun simply looks at him and says “fuck it” before seeking out someone who won’t actively bleach under her light. That gorgeous woman who’s got her hand on his arm, whose mouth is precariously close to his ear as she leans in to whisper something to him, she thinks he’s single.

He could, he knows, shove everyone out of his way, barrel through like a human battering ram and leave dismembered bodies in his wake, but he decides to wait. It’s probably better this way, anger burning longer in him as he tries to stare at Malcolm hard enough for the gaunt old fucker to physically feel it. Maybe if the club gets a little quieter, Malcolm will hear the blood rushing through him, pounding in his ears.

Or maybe if he’s lucky—Malcolm looks up and catches his eyes. Whatever he’s about to say to her stutters to a stop in his throat, leaving his mouth twitching with the muscle memory of the shite line he’d been ready to use on her. Even across a dark club, Jamie can see the way his jaw snaps closed, the way the need to suddenly escape bleeds out of his body and infects the air around him when he turns back to her to make his goodbyes. And if anything, Jamie’s anger spikes even more when he sees how well she takes it—she was in on it. It was a game, nothing more, two adults who’d had no intentions to do anything but talk, and he’d fallen for it. Again. As usual. He’s only two for three on Malcolm’s checklist, he’s pretty sure. He downs the remnants of his rum and coke and slams the glass on the table nearly hard enough to crack both the glass and the table.

As soon as Malcolm gets close enough to whisper—close enough that Jamie can feel the heat off his body, to smell the sweat and cologne under his undone tie and unbuttoned shirt, close enough that he can almost feel the stubble against his own skin—he taunts, “Son, you look fucking mental. More so than normal, anyway.”

"Why do you always do this?" Jamie hisses.

Malcolm has the temerity to smirk at him. He actually has the guts to smirk down at Jamie and say, “‘Cause I like the way you look at me when I do it.”

"What, like I want to kill you?"

"Like I’m yours to kill."

There’s probably something a therapist could make of that, but Jamie grabs him by the wrist hard enough to bruise and it’s all he can do to bundle him in a cab and hurl threats and epithets at the driver to urge them home faster.


	7. DW: Twelve and babies (or one baby)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user seiya234

The Doctor bent slightly at the waist and glared down at the tiny, tiny human before him. “I have a no hugs policy,” he stated, enunciating every word as clearly as he possibly could.

The tiny, tiny human raised her arms up and beckoned him to lift her. “I think you better do what you’re told,” Clara said. “Not like she understands you.”

He turned his glare towards her. “She knows perfectly well what I just said.” Little hands grasped at the cuffs of his trousers, then scrabbled up to his knees—he nearly took a step back, startled by the sudden touch, as the child struggled to her feet and stared up at him with an impeccable baby-version of his own glare. “Where did you even come from?” he asked her.

“You know, that’s a pretty good question,” Clara said. She reached down and hoisted the little girl into her arms, smiling kindly at her. “Who are you, sweetheart?”

The baby smiled at her before making grabby hands towards the Doctor. This time, he did step back. “No. No. No hugs.”

“Gggh,” the baby said. She seemed rather insistent.

“You wouldn’t,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you-”

An ear-piercing wail emerged from the child, alerting everyone in the town square of her discomfort. Clara cringed and quickly handed her off to the Doctor; the wailing stopped.

“You manipulative little—” The Doctor was cut off as she pawed at his mouth.

“She didn’t do it on purpose,” Clara said.

He shook his head, mostly to dislodge the baby’s fingers from his nostrils. “She did. She told me she would.”

“…She told you.”

“I speak baby.”

“Oh,” Clara said. “Of course. You speak baby.” She paused, frowned. “Then ask her her name.”

“She’s already told me. Rage-vale, Queen of the Dark Squall.” He sighed; little Rage-vale had settled against him with her head on his shoulder and her thumb in her mouth. Slowly, his scowl softened, and he realized maybe it wasn’t all that bad. It had just been so long since he’d been able to hold a child. He’d forgotten what it was like, and it stirred warmth and memories within him.

Rage-vale proceeded to spit up on his coat. The scowl returned. He glared at the top of her head as Clara stifled a laugh. “Let’s find your family, shall we?”


	8. X-over: Twelve & Clara meet Wrong (TTOI) Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user Zabbers

“Clara, go save him.”

“No. Doctor, you go save him.”

“I’m going to be a bit busy distracting the Cyberman. It’ll have to be you.”

Both Clara and the Doctor stood stock-still in the alleyway, peering around the corner of the building at the most terrifying and marvelous sight. A slight man in an ill-fitting suit, barely five foot ten (at least three inches of that was messy, curly hair), was shouting something angry and Scottish at a temporarily stunned Cyberman. For its part, the Cyberman was glancing around for help from its compatriots, apparently having forgotten it was armed.

Clara cut her eyes at the Doctor and scowled. “Coward.” She would get the rageful little Scotsman while the Doctor pointed his Cyberman-stopping-thingamajig at the great metal beast.

Clamping one hand on the arm of the Angry Caterpillar, Clara stared in awe and confusion as the Cyberman noticed the Doctor.

The poor thing looked almost relieved.

Rabid Scrappy Doo turned his glare towards her before glancing at the Doctor. “I’m fine, let go, let me at it—Malcolm!?”

Clara glanced at the Doctor, who (having dispatched with the Cyberman) was staring in confusion at Tiny Danger, whose glance had turned into a wide-eyed stare. “Who?”

He shook off Clara’s hand and took a step towards the Doctor, grinning widely and terrifyingly. “Malcolm! Stop acting so fucking daft, it’s your wee Jamie!” He made some kind of happy animal noise and wrapped his arms around the Doctor’s skinny frame.

The Doctor scowled, glared at Clara—as though this was all her fault—and hissed over wee Jamie’s shoulder, “Why do people keep doing this?”

Clara rolled her eyes, peeled wee Jamie away from the Doctor, grabbed both their hands, and dragged them towards the TARDIS. They would figure out this case of mistaken identity, but maybe after they’d gotten away from any imminent threats.


	9. DW: Twelve x Clara, overprotective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by an anonymous tumblr user

Woozy, Clara propped herself up on her elbows and blinked the fog of unconsciousness out of her eyes. She had no idea how long she’d been out. But the warehouse ground beneath her was warm from her body, even as the air around her felt cold, so she knew it had been at least a few minutes.

"Doctor?" Her own voice sounded rough to her ears, almost foreign. "Doctor, where—"

"Here. I’m here." The wool of his coat—always so strangely soft, not scratchy like she was used to wool being—brushed against her hands and she reached up for him. His arms were around her, helping her sit up, and he felt solid behind her as she leaned against him.

She almost smiled; he never seemed to remember his no-hugging policy when it came to her. But she remembered where she was, and what had been happening when she’d been knocked out, and she asked, “Did we stop them?”

"We did. You held them off long enough for me to get here."

"Where—" Her vision had finally cleared and adjusted to the low light of the abandoned warehouse, and she surveyed her surroundings.

It was destruction. It was pure and raw brutality, he hadn’t held back in the least against their enemies. She turned to face him; he wasn’t meeting her eyes, and his jaw was so tightly clenched that she could see a muscle twitching under his skin. Her heart fell, her throat closed up, and she asked, “Did you do this?”

"They hurt you," he said. There was desperation in his voice, pleading with her to understand it, knowing that she couldn’t. "Does it scare you? What I did?"

With a sigh, Clara reached up to brush his curls away from his forehead. It scared her more than she could believe possible, the way he’d lose himself like this sometimes. But she saw the worry creasing his brow, the uncertainty and self-loathing written across his face—she decided if he could keep secrets from her, she could keep secrets too, and so she smiled and said, “No. You could never scare me, Doctor.”


	10. DW: Twelve x Clara, morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not really a prompt at all--based off a post on tumblr by user allonsyandmoltobene.

Clara woke up to the feeling of somebody watching her.

Blearily blinking her eyes open, she inhaled slowly, as though to test the space around her. An arm around her waist; another’s skin against her back, though not so close as to be stifling. Stubble against her neck and shoulder through strands of her hair. With a smile growing on her lips, she shifted onto her back and stretched her legs out.

The Doctor’s eyes were open—sleepy, but bright enough as the pale morning light colored his face. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she said, her voice whisper-low to match his. “How long’ve you been awake?”

“Most of the night,” he said. He shrugged, strangely, with his face, his eyebrows moving together and mouth curling briefly. “Don’t need too much sleep.”

Clara smiled a smile of the bewildered. “Have you been looking at me the whole time, then?”

“Yes. Is that all right?”

She decided it was, and kissed his lips softly. She ached all over, but a certain warmth spread through her as she let her fingers splay out over his ribs. “You okay?”

He nodded, his smile small and open. “Yes. Are you—was I—that is, I don’t usually. Was it fine?”

Her smile faded, but the bewilderment remained. Clara searched his face; she was used to it looking stern, confident, sometimes even terrifying. All sharp lines and hard angles, and eyes that could cut glass. But when her hand drifted up to his cheek, up to silver curls gone even more mad-scientist than normal, she swore she could feel the hopefulness and nervousness under his skin. “It was fine,” she said, gently pushing him onto his back so she could settle against his chest. “Very much so. Better than fine.”

“Good.” Clara could hear his hearts beating proud in his chest as he added, “I think I like this part.”

"Yeah?" She kissed his chest. Then, tracing kisses up to his neck and jawline, she asked, “What else do you like?”

The Doctor’s eyelids fluttered shut as she got on top of him and threaded her fingers through his hair. “Bossy,” he said, and it took her a moment to realize it was an answer, not an accusation.


	11. DW: 12 & Clara, pocket!12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: Clara finds pocket!Twelve after he somehow managed to shrink himself.

"No! Clara!"

Clara froze, her foot hovering about six inches above the ground, and stared forward. She knew that voice. Well, sort of. She knew that voice when it didn’t sound like its owner had inhaled a helium balloon or three. “Doctor?”

Something—someone—scurried out from underfoot. “Down here.” Clara lowered her foot carefully to the side, and turned her stare to the floor; a tiny, tiny silver-haired scowl stared back up at her. “There’s been an accident,” he shouted.

Not even attempting to suppress a grin, she knelt down in front of him. “I can tell. Doctor, what did you do?”

"Doesn’t matter," he squeaked. "Just help me up."

A giggle left her before she could stop it. All the jokes he’d ever made at her expense came flooding back and she grinned a slightly wicked grin and said, “Aren’t you adorable? So short. I could just put you in my pocket and keep you there.”

The pint-sized time lord glowered even more fiercly. “Your nose is even funnier looking now it’s gigantic,” he said.

"Your eyebrows haven’t changed at all, now you’re tiny."

His hands went instinctively up to them. “Shut up, they’re distinguished. You didn’t like them when they were delicate and now-“

"Doctor," she whispered; she figured if she used her regular voice, it might sound a little loud. "Do you know how to fix this?"

"Yes. I have equipment, I’ll need to get there."

"Would you like a lift?"

He refused to meet her eyes, instead choosing to stare lasers into the floor. “Yes please.”

Clara picked him up delicately and held him in the palm of her hand. “I’m serious about putting you in my pocket.”

"Probably for the best," he said with a resigned sigh. "I’ll need your hands free."

Clara put him in her shirt pocket and frowned. “Is there a chance this’ll make me tiny, too?”

"Noooo."

"Doctor."

"Maybe. Probably not! Possibly yes."

She sighed and started walking, but stopped as she heard sputtering somewhere below her neck. Glancing down, she saw him fighting with strands of her hair. “Clara,” he said, spitting out a mouthful. “Could you-“

"Right." She pulled her hair back and tied it in a quick ponytail. "Sorry."


	12. DW: 12 & Clara, "Don't trust me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr user absolutewho asked for an angsty fill on the line "Don't trust me." Spoiler-free.

Clara held up her hand to stop him, stepped back until she bumped into the console room railing. “Don’t trust me.” Her eyes were wide with terror, her face slack with it, as she begged him to keep back.

The Doctor nearly laughed. Of all the things for her to say—he’s the one who’d gotten them into all this. Landing on some curiously abandoned freighter, instead of taking them to the carnival she’d wanted to go to, spending far too long on it and poking his nose into far too much and now there was something in her that wasn’t her and it was his fault. If anybody was untrustworthy, it wasn’t her. With a half-hearted, lopsided weak smile, he quipped, “I have to trust somebody, don’t I?”

"Sorry," she said, her own smile watery and her eyes glistening red in the TARDIS light. "Don’t think I’m me right now. Or at least I won’t be in a minute."

He took a step towards her. “Clara, I’ll fix this.”

She nodded, though from the grimace on her face he could tell something was raging in her mind. “I know. I trust you.”

 _Don’t_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he nodded back and took another step towards her.


	13. TTOI: Malcolm & Jamie, "Don't trust me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr user Madamehardy asked for an angst fill on the line "Don't trust me." Set right before Jamie disappears from the show.

"Don’t trust me." It was a repetition, an echo of Malcolm’s words back at him, stated with a blank face and blank eyes because if Jamie had let anything into his gaze he was sure it would have been nothing but fire. " _You_ —of all people—don’t trust _me_.”

"Don’t take it so personal, son," Malcolm had said, and Jamie could almost hear the roll of his eyes in his tone of voice. "I don’t trust anyone."

He shook his head as though to clear it. “But I-” Jamie stopped, a defense mechanism clamping his throat shut, not allowing the words to issue forth: but he had trusted Malcolm. And Malcolm was the only reason he was even there. “So you’re keeping everyone out of the loop?”

"Almost everyone," Malcolm conceded. He took a drag of his cigarette. "It’s a need to know basis."

"And I don’t need to know."

"Yeah."

Jamie wanted so badly to light up his own cigarette, to set something on fire and kill something inside of him, but he settled for stuffing his hands in his pockets and staring out over the smoker’s patio. Inside, the staff was working nonstop on—something stupid, he had to admit, a non-scandal that had blown up at the worst possible time. “If I’m not to know,” he said, “then what’s the point of me?”

Malcolm stared at him as though he’d just spoken to him in Greek. “What?”

"I mean you used to trust me," he said. He had no idea how this was coming out of him so matter-of-factly; his chest felt like he’d just sprinted a marathon, and heat was creeping up his neck and down his back. "When we got into this? It was us vee them, fuck the world."

"It still is," Malcolm said, but Jamie could see the cogs working behind those gray eyes that seemed nearly constantly furious lately. "It’s still us, I just don’t—look-"

"You just don’t trust me," Jamie said. "It’s you against the rest of us cunts."

Malcolm looked like he was trying to catch something that had escaped him, but he didn’t know what that something was. He cracked a weak, lopsided smile. “Shouldn’t you be threatening to beat me to a pulp and then threatening to fuck the pulp right about now?”

Jamie shrugged, suddenly empty. “Can’t trust anyone for a good threat these days, can you?” Malcolm’s face fell something dark as Jamie went to clean off his desk.


	14. DW: 12 & Clara, angst prompt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for an angst fill on the prompt "Don't listen to them. Don't you EVER listen to them." Spoiler-free.

"Don’t listen to them-"

He swayed before her, pulse rifle in hand; drenched in sweat and with eyes glazed over and brows furrowed in confusion, the Doctor raised the barrel halfway up. “I have to find them,” he said, half in a daze. “I have to listen.”

"Don’t you _ever_ listen to them,” Clara pleaded. Sweat was beading on her own forehead as he struggled to keep the rifle down, as he blinked nervously and licked dry lips. “Doctor, this isn’t who you are.”

"How can you be sure?" He hefted the rifle more firmly. "How do you know?"

She knew she should have been scared, but some core part of her managed to stay calm—it was still him, she was sure, no matter what was happening. “Do you recognize me?” she asked. “Funny nose. Short. Put the rifle down—please.”

He frowned at her. “You’re bossy.”

"Yes. Very much so."

Slowly, he lowered the rifle until it hung by his side. “Clara. My Clara.”

She took a step towards him, then another, until she could reach the weapon and take it from him. “That’s me.”

Something flashed behind his eyes, some recognition that her heart leaped at seeing even as the rest of him seemed fogged over. “We have to find them.”

Fairly certain of what she’d do whenever they found this mysterious them, Clara reached up and brushed back the curls from his forehead. “We will. Promise.”


	15. DW: 12 & Clara, angst prompt #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr user cazdinal asked for a fill on "What happened doesn't change anything." Spoiler-free.

"What happened doesn’t change anything." She sat across the cafe table from him, steam swirling out of her latte in twists and turns that he seemed so intent on staring at. "Doctor? Do you understand?"

Somehow, when this face wore despair, it showed as even more despairing than she’d thought possible. Clara wasn’t even sure she could describe it; it was as though he was confused by his own sadness, and that made him all the sadder. But there was hope in his eyes when he turned them up to look at her. “You’ll stay?”

Hands warmed by her cup, she reached over to touch his wrist. “It wasn’t your fault. What happened. Okay? Yes, I’m staying. For as long as you’ll let me.”

He nodded—and face crumpling, he took her hand in both of his and dropped his head to press a kiss, and then his forehead, to her palm. “Thank you,” he said, and, “I’m sorry.”

And when he kept repeating it, and when she found herself ignoring the stares of those around her, she ran her free hand through his curls and tried to promise him there was nothing to be sorry about.


	16. DW: 12 & Clara, song prompt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for a fill on the Marina and the Diamonds song Starring Role. Sort of based on that but not entirely. Spoiler-free.

The change is palpable, and she’s not sure it’s a bad thing.

At first—if she’s being honest with herself, at first she decides that it’s too much of a shift, to go from his little mystery, his impossible girl upon whom he was hyper-focused for so long, to what they have today. At first, the focus on her is seemingly gone and she doesn’t quite know what to do without the warmth of his spotlight on her.

But he asks her things now, speaks to her in a different way—“Clara,” he says, “Clara, come see”—and she soon realizes that, yes, there is still a light in his eyes for her. It’s just a different light, that’s all. And if she’s very, very honest, she can admit that the light had changed in his last set of eyes, too, that he had changed some time before his face had even if she hadn’t noticed it at the time, and that what she had mistakenly thought had been a starring role in his heart had been replaced with something a little more equal.

And when he says, “Clara, come with me,” she can see that sweet young face, that silly chin and floppy, boyish hair, at the same moment that she sees those big blue eyes and hears that rough Scottish voice—through it all she feels the warmth of that light, no longer harsh, no longer invasive. She takes his hand and thinks it’s not a bad thing at all, change.


	17. DW: Twelve & Clara, angst prompt #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr user ciaoseba asked for a fill on the phrase "Don't fucking touch me." Spoiler-free.

"Don’t—don’t touch me."

This wasn’t like the other times. The other times, when Clara flung her arms around him to give him a hug, his protests always seemed half-hearted. More like he didn’t know how to hug than he didn’t really want a hug. And he never protested if she stood on the tips of her toes and pecked his cheek; sometimes, he’d even lean down a bit to make it easier for her, though he’d never let the opportunity pass to comment on her height.

This time, all Clara had asked for was a squeeze of his hand in hers, a touch of her fingers to his arm, anything softer and warmer than the stony coldness of the prison cell they were in together. He’d just come back with the guards, looking none the worse for wear, but he’d been gone for so long and Clara had been left alone, wondering, worrying, coming up with the worst possible scenarios in her head and heart. All she had done was crawl towards him and reach out, and he’d flinched away like her touch was a live wire. Uncertainly, she backed slightly away from him and asked, “Doctor?”

His head snapped towards her but his eyes didn’t meet hers. “Yes?”

"It’s just me," she said. "It’s just Clara."

He licked his lips, and his eyes flickered up to hers. “Yes. Of course. I know that.”

"You all right?"

The Doctor sat beside her, back to the wall and knees drawn up, biting his fingernails. “Yes. Fine.”

It was a lie, but she wouldn’t press. Their captors had done something, she had no idea what, and there was no way she was going to add to it by prying into something he clearly didn’t want to talk about. Instead, she asked, “Would you like me to be quiet, or would you like me to talk?”

"Talk," he said quickly, mumbling around his hand. Almost as an afterthought, he glanced at her and added, "Please. Need to—I’d like to hear your voice."

So she talked. It was a nothing, one sided conversation, about lesson plans and movies she’d seen, but he moved closer to her eventually, and when he laid his head against her shoulder, she took his free hand in hers and pressed a kiss to his soft, silver hair.


	18. DW: Twelve & Clara, angst prompt #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr user becumsh asked for the time Clara breaks Twelve's hearts. Spoiler-free.

It’s later, with her curled drowsy in his arms and him awake and alert. He could watch her for ages and never be bored, timing the way her chest rises and falls, calculating the exact space between her parted lips, feeling the pulse beneath her skin. He could, but he shifts, and the soft material of the Doctor’s trousers slide against her legs just below the hemline of her skirt, and she blinks awake. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

The bed creaks a little under them as they both move a bit closer. “It’s fine,” she mumbles. Her eyelids are half-closed still, as though she’s not quite awake just yet. “Sleep well?”

“Didn’t need to,” he says. But he thinks it over—she had been warm against him, and safe, and he had fallen asleep for a few moments—and adds, “Yes. I slept well.”

“Mmm.” With a sigh, she curls up closer against him. This is what they do sometimes, after outings that are particularly troublesome for either of them. She sleeps, and he watches over them. It’s a pattern the Doctor finds himself, troublingly, growing used to. Clara yawns against him and asks, “Stick around?”

“Of course,” he says. How could he ever say no, he wonders. “For how long?”

She smiles up at him with soft, sleepy eyes and says, “Forever,” before drifting off again.

She says it like it’s a possibility; he is acutely aware that it is not. She doesn’t see the way his face falls, for which he is grateful, and as his arms close in around her to pull her to him, he wonders what he’ll do when forever ends.


	19. TTOI: Malcolm x Jamie, domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terribly saccharine domesticity. Written on the road, not a prompt-fic, pointless fluff.

It’s one of those moments, when Malcolm is desperately trying to make sure things don’t feel too comfortable, to make sure there’s still an edge of derision so that Jamie doesn’t get the wrong (right, secretly right) idea about what Malcolm thinks of him, that Malcolm swipes a finger down one of Jamie’s cheeks and says, “You look like a fucking chipmunk.”

Jamie pauses with a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. Malcolm hasn’t yet realized that Jamie is onto him and his commitment-phobic ways so sometimes he likes to play along for fun, and some other times the things Malcolm says still rankle him even when he knows Malcolm doesn’t really mean it and is just being Malcolm.

This is not one of those times. Jamie has never in his life been called a chipmunk. Or at least not that he can remember, not at a time when a glass or bottle hadn’t already been in hand and ready for breaking on someone’s face. He frowns at Malcolm and, eloquent as ever, says, “Weh?”

"A demented psycho chipmunk," Malcolm elaborates. He’s always been very good at speaking slowly like Jamie would be too stupid to understand otherwise. Normally Jamie waits out these moods with the sort of patience his professional peers would be surprised to see in him, because really, it’s only Malcolm doing that thing where he tries to shove the people he cares about away before they can leave him, and Jamie figures it’s best not to say anything at all and simply be there when Malcolm’s finished, as though to prove the shoving hadn’t worked.

Normally, Jamie’s good at weathering this sort of storm. Today, he has too much on his plate and so he decides the best way to deal is to end Malcolm’s ranting before it even gets started—he munches his cereal and says, “Thanks, love. That’s sweet.”

Malcolm frowns; he’d expected either a glower or unbearable patience, not pure acceptance. “What?”

With a brilliant, bright-eyed smile, Jamie looks at him and says, “I’m YOUR wee demented psycho chipmunk, aren’t I?”

Malcolm’s glare holds too long, then briefly becomes an awkward sneer, before finally, as he turns away and averts his eyes, as his coldblooded pale cheeks turn pink and his ears go red, his face settles into a scowl and he grips his coffee mug closer and mutters, “Yeah.”

Jamie leans over and kisses a spot of rosy skin—truly, well and truly pink, and he thinks about snapping a photo for Twitter but values his life a little too much for that—and says, “I love you too.”

It’s luck and reflexes that keeps his face from being smashed into his soggy corn flakes.


	20. TTOI, Malcolm x Jamie, cooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for Malcolm x Jamie, cooking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept going back and forth on this—didn’t know what tone to take. It ended up post-series, angst, hurt/comfort, whatever you want to call it, I think it’s got a hopeful end but a warning for depression is probably appropriate. about 1,000 words.

Just a pinch of salt. Just enough to bring out the other flavors. Jamie remembered that much, at least, from the last time Malcolm had shown him how to make this. He glanced behind him into the sitting room and called out, “Do you want to come taste?”

A shake of the head—not even the muttered, monosyllabic answer Jamie had thought he might get. But the television was blasting something, some stupid reality show and he thought to himself, maybe Malcolm didn’t want to shout over it.

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. There wasn’t much room in the kitchen at any rate. It was a nice kitchen; Malcolm had made sure of that when he’d bought the place years ago, that it was usable and open and designed properly for someone who actually cooked. “Sure I’m better than the last few fucks who tried to cook for you.”

He was careful as he diced up some vegetables, anything that had looked like they might work well; he chopped slowly, slower than Malcolm might have with his long, thin fingers and sure hands. His own hand looked too thick, felt too clumsy, so he had to be careful. Carelessness would lead to suddenly sliced skin, blood dripping out and ruining everything even before the pain would be registered. “Malc, did you say—did you want anything special? Did you say you wanted anything special?”

The shitty reality show went silent then. “No.”

He kept chopping slowly. “Bad day?” he asked.

The prison itself hadn’t that bad. Jamie knew a bad prison stint. Cousins in and out of jail, a nephew that was too hot-headed for his own good sometimes. Even his own misspent youth had taught him a thing or two about life in a cold cell. Malcolm’s time had been served in some posh, upper class open prison, about as cheerful as a prison could be, and if that had been the end of the story then Jamie would be first in line laughing in his face as soon as he’d gotten released.

But before the time served, before the trial or even the hearing, there had been something else, something more. There was a whispering emptiness Malcolm had staved off for years—a thing Jamie had known existed, but had never paid any mind to as Malcolm had handled it, hadn’t he, he’d had things to focus on and he didn’t need any sack of wank’s hand holding his cock to help him piss. There was a whispering emptiness, and Jamie had gone, and it had grown, and the two things were entirely unrelated but he thought, sometimes in the dead of night, he should have been there. Should’ve been around to shout back at it and tell it to fuck off, or at least to offer his services, to let Malcolm know that there was someone else willing to do that even if it wouldn’t have done any good.

“Bad day,” Malcolm said, so quietly Jamie almost missed it.

“Right,” he said. “Won’t be much longer. Almost finished.”

Cooked, plated, taken out to the sitting room—Malcolm unfurled himself just enough to take his lunch and start pecking at it. “Looks good,” he said.

“Looks like shit,” Jamie said with a grin. “Probably tastes like it, too. I’m not you.”

“Yeah, not many people are.” But he ate one forkful, raised his eyebrows appreciatively, and added, “It’s not shit.”

“Don’t act so shocked,” he said.

Malcolm glared at him from the corner of his eyes, but there was mischief in the look. “You just said yourself it probably tastes like shit.”

“You were supposed to disagree,” he said, “before taking a bite.”

“Well, I’m disagreeing now, after. Congratulations, it’s not a pile of feces. And get-” He put his plate on the coffee table, rolled up a magazine and smacked Jamie’s feet. “Get your stinking, ugly feet off the table.”

Jamie didn’t move except to nudge him with an elbow. “You’ll never change me. I am unmovable. I am a constant in the universe and I will leave my feet where I please.”

“Raised by actual wolves,” Malcolm said. But he picked his plate back up and said, “Seriously, this is good. I’m impressed.”

“Eh. You’ll be even more impressed when you see what I’ve got planned for dinner.” Jamie had hoped for some quip after that, some comment about sneaking takeaway boxes in or something, and when he didn’t get it, he turned to look at him. But before he could figure out if he’d said the wrong thing, there was movement beside him—a plate put back on the table, a face held in two hands as Malcolm leaned back, his body taut and charged. “Hey,” he said, putting his own plate down, dropping his feet to the floor, before twisting to face him. “It’s only dinner, nothing serious-“

“Sometimes I just want to tell you to fuck off,” Malcolm said. “Because I think one day you’ll fuck off on your own and at least if it’s coming from me, that’s on my terms.”

There were a lot of things Jamie thought he could say right then. Mostly things that would never make sense between them, things too soft and too mawkish to ever fit, even if they were exactly what he was thinking. So instead, he said, “Wolves run in packs.”

Malcolm took a deep breath and dropped his hands to his sides. “So that’s you, saying you’ll stay?”

“Unmovable,” Jamie said. “A constant. Got a better chance hiding a packet of chocolate biscuits from Lord Baldymort himself than shoving me out the door.”

For a moment, it seemed as though Malcolm had gone silent again, already spent from what little conversation they’d had. Then: “No surrender?”

Jamie leaned over to him, kissed his cheek, pressed his hand warm against Malcolm’s neck and murmured, “No surrender.”


	21. TTOI, Malcolm & Julius, scandal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maresdotes gave me a prompt for Julius getting into some non-scandal type of scandal, Malcolm getting him out of it, and then Malcolm telling him something scandalous about himself—prompt has been lost in a convo but that was the gist of it I think. Here it is, about 300 words.

Julius hadn’t expected any of this, not really. Malcolm’s help in shuffling these embarrassing personal details under the rug—yes, of course he had hoped for it, in a quid pro quo sense, in a sense where he had perhaps thought he’d owe the devil for saving his political soul but with payment deferred to some later date.

But after the deflected almost-scandal, after the press had been given an even juicier slab of meat upon which to gnaw, he had expected Malcolm to be, well, Malcolm. Holding it over his head (and taking every opportunity to point out its baldness, its shine, its pointy nature or anything else he could come up with), taunting him privately, threatening to hold onto the embarrassing information, potentially sending his personal pitbull along to issue the threats instead.

Instead, he found himself suppressing the urge to fidget, the urge to reach out and take long-fingered hands in his own, as Malcolm poured himself some rather expensive scotch, poured himself some more after that, and spilled forth his own secrets. Julius’s shame was neutralized; there was nothing Malcolm could do with it, now that Julius had a cachet of information for his own use. When Malcolm was finished, he sat back, out of reach with a dram in hand, and Julius asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why—tell me these things?”

“Because what they were trying to use against you was a cheap shot,” Malcolm said, “and I wanted to make sure I could never use it against you myself.”

“And you couldn’t simply…tell yourself not to use it?”

Malcolm grinned ruefully at that; Julius had always thought that grin seemed a bit feral and it was never more so than it was right then. “You’d think, but no.”

Julius poured his own drink at that, raised his glass, and said, “To mutually assured destruction.”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh that didn’t have much humor in it. He raised his glass to Julius’s anyway.


	22. TTOI, Malcolm forced on holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1lovelyone1 asked, "I'm not good at prompts but anyone going out of their way to make Malcolm take an actual holiday? With relaxing in the sunshine and no phones and all manner of normal holiday stuff that he'd probably find horrifying until he got into it....?"

It had been a trap. A filthy shitting cock-gargling trap, set by his Sam. Malcolm could hardly believe it—if he hadn’t felt so betrayed, he’d be downright impressed at her scheming.

Well. No, he was impressed anyway. He probably shouldn’t have been, given how much of his life was essentially in her hands; from waking up in the morning to collapsing into bed at night, his schedule was as much at her mercy as it was at his own. She told him he had a two week-long conference in the States, in some fucking black hole in the middle of Vermont—Vermont, of all places, home of socialist moose fucking sentient jars of maple syrup, he was quite sure of that—and he had believed her. Trusted her. Why did he trust her? Why did he trust anybody?

It wasn’t worth it, he thought as he stretched out on the cabin’s lone sofa. Outside, the leaves were all sorts of colors against a bright blue sky, and inside there was a fire going crackling in a stone hearth. He was stuck here, in some barbaric “resort,” with its “relaxing seclusion” and “hot breakfast made to order” and probably very likely socialist moose somewhere in these woods which he wouldn’t actually mind, he’d need some intelligent conversation at some point and he wasn’t going to bother the staff. They were very nice but he wouldn’t want to be an imposition, especially not when he was so livid at being there in the first place.

Malcolm yawned angrily and tucked an arm under his head. He wouldn’t go for a walk, that was for sure. That’s what Sam would have wanted. On the other hand, maybe she wanted him to have a nap, so a walk would be more defiant. He frowned, then pulled out his phone. The rates were exorbitant, the time difference a pain, but he figured he deserved at least one call back home, so he dialed her and waited.

“Malcolm, you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself,” she said.

“I refuse. How dare you?”

“Have you tried their pancakes? Jamie told me they’re wonderful.”

Jamie. He sat upright quickly. The wee cunt was in on this, and he had been blaming poor Sam the entire time—“Put that worthless little pisspot on the phone, I need a word.”

There was a moment of shuffling, and then, “Malc!” Jamie sounded far too happy. “Enjoying the Americans, are you?”

“I’ll feed you to them,” Malcolm said. “I’ll chop you into bits and barbecue you.”

“That sounds nice, eh? Do a dry rub, that’s my favorite.”

“I’m not joking, I hate this.” His protests were only slightly dampened by the yawn that sneaked up on him mid-speech.

“Sure you do. Why don’t you close your eyes a bit before—what time is it there?”

“About noon,” he said.

“Right. Close your eyes a bit before lunch, then walk to that little diner they’ve got there and get yourself the lobster roll. It’s as big as my cock, you’ll love it, trust me.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “How do you know so much about this resort?”

“I went there once,” Jamie said, “that’s how I knew where to banish you.”

“Sounds like you would’ve preferred to be here.”

“I would.” Malcolm could almost see him shrugging, with a crooked grin and oddly soft eyes. “But someone had to hold it down here while you were away. So you enjoy it for me, all right? And next time, we’ll figure it out, we’ll both go. Trust me, and relax.”

He scratched the back of his head, refusing to feel sheepish. “Yeah, all right.” Jamie hung up without another word, and Malcolm settled back on the sofa.

Nap, then walk, then cock-sized lobster roll. He had a mission, and he’d be damned if he didn’t fulfill it.


	23. TTOI, Malcolm & Jamie with Sam's baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> weezerthefangirl asked, "I’d love to see a Malcolm x Jamie fic set post series where they are “uncles” to Sam’s new baby. That’s total fluff I know but I’m a sucker for fluff."

There was something about Malcolm with a baby in his arms, as unnatural as it was natural, that probably would have warmed whatever dark void was in the place that Jamie’s heart should have been, had Jamie not been disturbed and annoyed by the things Malcolm was saying to the poor child. “You can’t tell her that,” Jamie said.

"Can’t tell her-" Malcolm squirmed away from little Sarah’s chubby fingers as she grabbed at his nose and teeth. "Can’t tell her what?"

"Can’t tell her to say those things," Jamie said. "You can’t tell her to say, ‘Uncle Julius is a knob-head sand-papery cunt,’ now can you?"

Still bouncing the tiny bundle of joy in his arms, Malcolm glared at him with a face like thunder and asked, “Why, in your esteemed fucking opinion, not?”

Jamie glared right back and waved dismissively at the girl. “Well she hasn’t yet reached the developmental stage necessary for complex speech, has she? She can barely hold her head up.”

"Besides," Sam said as she swept into the sitting room. She looked about as well rested as either man had seen her lately, having had a few hours to herself thanks to their offer to help look after her Sarah. She took her baby from Malcolm and kissed her cheek, then kissed his, before leaning over to kiss Jamie’s. "Julius Nicholson is a fine man but he’s not her uncle."

Malcolm seemed to consider this, a thoughtful frown creasing his face. Then he smiled, stroked Sarah’s cheek as she stared at him with bright brown eyes and said, “Can you say Lord Baldymort is a knob-head sand-papery cunt? Such a smart wee thing, I bet you can. Don’t you listen to your Uncle Jamie, he’s not at the developmental stage necessary for complex speech either. Now try it with me, ‘Lord Baldymort is a knob-head sand-papery cunt’…”


	24. DW: 12 x Clara, Clara fingering 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked, "Pssst Clara fingering Twelve pls oh pls."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably the first explicit thing I'd written for this pairing, sometime in mid December 2014. Didn't post it on here until now, had forgotten about it until I'd gone to find a few other things for the update.

After Christmas, after he’d come back, there had been such a difference—his hands found hers more quickly, his body had pressed closer to her more often. Clara had been mistaken in thinking the loneliness had been one-sided and hers alone. And so she had kissed him, just barely on the cheek, fast enough that he wouldn’t be uncomfortable but firm enough that he’d feel it for long moments after.

She hadn’t quite expected him to look at her with those big, storm-cloud eyes and hesitantly lean in for a kiss of his own.

But he had, and she had welcomed him, and she would have been happy if it had ended there; she hadn’t known him to want more than that, even in his last body, when he was fast with a hug and so easily slung an arm around her shoulders. She would have been perfectly content holding or being held or anything, really, anything that he was comfortable with.

Still, it was to her immense delight that he asked her, one day, if they could go a little bit further.

*

“Not that you have to say yes,” he said. He nibbled at his thumb and glanced away. “It’s probably better, actually, if you say no-”

“I’m not saying no,” Clara said, stifling a laugh. “This is a resounding yes.”

His eyes flickered over her, searching for some proof she was kidding. “I’ve done this before,” he said. “I’m really very experienced.”

“Right. Thought you might be.”

“It’s just there’s been a gap,” he went on, “between all that experience…and the present.”

“Don’t be nervous,” she said.

“I’m not. Also, telling me not to be nervous just makes me more nervous.”

She couldn’t help her smile, one that she knew spoke loudly of just how sweet she found him at that moment. “Okay. So be nervous.” She pushed him gently onto the sofa, straddled him, and added, “And tell me to stop if you want me to, no questions asked, I promise I’ll stop. Deal?”

“Deal,” he said with a sigh, letting his eyes close as she kissed him.

*

He hadn’t told her to stop. Not then, not when she’d decided her favorite thing was to grip his wrists and hold his hands above his head as she rode him, not when she’d decided her next favorite thing was to run her fingers through his hair and give a good tug whenever his tongue did something especially nice.

And not now, when he was face down on her bed, gasping and white-knuckling the sheets as she slid a finger just far enough inside him to make him try and push back onto her. Her free hand ran through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp before taking hold of his curls. “More?” she murmured, her lips leaving bright red stain against his neck and shoulder.

When she’d imagined this, she’d thought his voice would be hoarse. She’d thought he’d, if anything, go higher pitched, like he did when she teased him slowly or, memorably, like the time she’d decided to actually tie him down. But now, here, with two fingers easing in and out of him as he tried to set his own harder pace, his voice dropped deep and turned gravelly, rough and so dark that it would be all she’d think about for weeks any time she closed her eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Please. More.”

She smiled and twisted a third finger into him, laughing sweetly as he bucked against her and buried his face against her pillow. “Steady, boy,” she whispered. “Steady.”

And when he held himself still for her, tense and breathing ragged, she decided then and there that she had a new favorite thing.


End file.
